Lancaster daily intelligencer. [volume] (Lancaster, Pa.) 1864-1928, 1887-08-06

sitting in this mossy dell.
Midst these terms where fairies d~elI.
breathing summers incense rare,
Nondrous sou nds n! all the air
lat the co o,ing Of the dove.
or the rustlink leaves above
lis perChance the tseCts' wing.
Or the gurgliug ot this spring
Brooklet, sq uirrsl.. bird. and trees
Aud the merry hum of bees
All togei her strike the ear.
Tell us what We love to hear.
Ofthe days they softly sipg.
when no axe was heard to ring,
when no plough as yet WAS known.
when free Nature reisned alone
Here upon this soft green bed,
yS,,I Senth ~, ,hsss iiIping lesye. "'srh. ad.
Painting all In inello~est hue.
Indian youths that tale would tell
Which n III Ndens love 80 we'll
Here their VOWS were sent aloft,
Here their sighs would ningle Oft
Spirit echoes still are heard
pt the lovers burning word,
" hen the evening zephy plov
Through the pine boughs dropping low.
while the leaves OF yondar bush
Every fail r, 4 .ct he blush
Glowing on the msiden's cheek.
As the word she heard him SPEAK.
some e'en ear-perhars they're RASH
Ia the -pla-hing wayelets dash,
Lingering echfs,s ot the KISS
Wherewith here they sealed their bliss.
whe ther this be true or not,
Certain tbs that every spot
In these woods tts memories has,
Memories which too soon must pass.
Every dover blooming bright.
Each gay warbler singing light,
Testimony seems to be .r
VI the myrth ana JOY once there.
when In e 'eeful dance and song
Youth and maiden trtpped along.
Celebrating in their lays
Triumphs gained In war or chase.
Hark. the acorns' falling souni.
One by one upon the ground -
Each the memory of tear
Dropped by maids and mothers here.
And the pain and grief they bore
tor their loved ones slain In war,
Qiiver. like the ve.ing breeze,
In the trembling maple trees.
Is't wonder then we love
Meath these ancient trees tn rove,
Listening to their tales Of yorc.
Tales of sights noS seen no more
lst wonder, when we hear
In each sound n ghost-voce near
when each shallow that We see
Thus becomes reality
All we love to ba alone
with the shades of ax-- gone,
In the living past to dwell.
sitting in this lnos-y DELL.
1t is very plain that the muses. were on q
ampsge at the Algonkin camp! For no,
'nly did the sights aud sounds Of the noble
crest there inspire such etiusions - the
Ibove: but the full moon also, never sG
y sondrous fair and strangely potent ~ on the
water or in the woods, put in her work.
homssick ness lent it's aid, and the
wo Influences together must therefore he
ield responsible for the following prod uction,
he correct title OF which some OF my readers
will probably say ought To be Moonshine."
am not sure but that l agree with them, so
ar rs that is concerned but yet | give the
'hymster's own rhyme ! must also give the
itle he himself chose, which is this:
LIGHT OF MY LIFE.
'eho,d yon shining silver canoe,
That Il oats through the skys deep ocean of blue
with golden star To light ali its way,
And guide II safe to ihe realms OF day,
Is II silently sails the dark night through
Ny soul Il embarked in that silver canoe.
nd thou art the star so radiant and true,
The glow of whose love ever shining and
bright.
Nv own lies dar rkness turned into light
The guide whom Al follow my piigrimags
through.
II you can digest all that, such Q big dos
Of camp poetry, and still endure more,
can't! Neither will l risk trying your en-
durance any further in this August weather
UNCAS.